


In the Shadows of Men

by DarkObsessions



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkObsessions/pseuds/DarkObsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is kind of a 'part two' to my Of Pirates & Queens. Inspired by Vane's S1E1 comment "I may just forget that I loved you once...". It is my take on what might have been Vane & Eleanor's falling out before the start of season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

**Summary:** This is kind of a 'part two' to my Of Pirates & Queens. Inspired by Vane's S1E1 comment "I may just forget that I loved you once...". It is my take on what might have been Vane & Eleanor's falling out before the start of season 1.

**Nassau – 1709**

It lasted three years. Three gloriously complicated and remarkable years. He would set out to sea and be gone for weeks or months at a time. She'd bury herself in the business, determined to turn it into something worthwhile, to prove she was more than just Richard Guthrie's daughter.

And whenever he returned to port, he'd glide into her tavern and it would be as if he'd never left. They'd fall together with a string of curses, a blatant solicitation, or a wordless plea. How it happened didn't much matter, only that it always did.

Nothing had ever been gentle or simple between the two of them. There was always an edge of roughness, a demand, a challenge. It was who they were, who they had to be. It didn't matter that neither of them bothered much with soft words or declarations of undying affection. The sentiment between them was plain enough to see. And that had been sufficient enough to content them both.

There were little things of course. A soft touch here, the odd gesture there. Small but expressive indications of affection that suited them both.

Both were far too stubborn and full of pride and ambition to allow for the open admittance of such weakness. But even if they had not been so, they could not have afforded to; their positions demanded dispassionate pragmatism. Vane's men needed to see him as untouchable, as a brutal and efficient man unburdened by affective attachments. He needed to present as being utterly dedicated to the ceaseless pursuit fame and fortune, not to some uppity tavern wench with a power complex. No fool would follow a man ruled by emotion. Eleanor's business dealings required her to maintain a ruthlessly efficient management criteria if she was to be viewed as even half as competent as any man.

Thus, this ruff and tumble sort of relationship was exactly the sort to agree with both their personalities and occupations.

Of course, there were whispers. People would talk of the shameless Lady Eleanor and her brute of a pirate lover, Captain Charles Vane. As much was to be expected, and for the most part such whispers were ignored through the years.

But something had changed. Perhaps because their affair had lasted so long, and people had begun to suspect they were more to one another than a passing fancy. Or perhaps nothing had changed, and she had just been blind to verity of the situation. Perhaps her feelings for the incorrigible pirate had clouded her judgment. Either way, Eleanor had come to realize an unfortunate and painful truth.

Standing beside him, she would always be viewed as lesser.

Not only was he a man, but he was a notorious and influential racketeer, a king among pirates. His very air demanded fear and respect. At his side, she would never achieve the standing she so desperately required.

For when people looked upon them, his presence outweighed her own.

Eleanor had always known she needed Nassau accept her authority, to yield under the power she'd spent her entire life striving to acquire. As a woman, she'd had to work twice as hard to earn half as much respect. She'd dragged Nassau from the dirt and turned it into a prospering commercial trade base. And had done so with little more than wits and will.

This place was wrought with her blood, sweat and tears. It was everything. She could not afford to be seen as merely the extension of a man. Or worse, as some love-struck, imbecilic female.

Which was exactly what she'd begun to see happening. She begun to realize that many people viewed her not as a competent and successful woman who was not to be fucked with, but simply as Charles Vane's woman. That the qualms of her investors were often squelched not for fear of her, but for fear of Vane. And that whatever strides she made while at his side, would inevitably be attributed to him.

The anguish that accompanied that realization was striking.

When he had crawled under her skin and so effectively set up camp, she didn't know. But she knew she had to cut him out. It would pain and bleed, but she would live. She had to.

No one had ever managed to burrow into her heart so efficiently, and she doubted anyone ever would again. But she couldn't let that change things, he still needed to be removed. If she allowed herself this weakness, everything for which she'd worked her whole life would be for nothing.

When she told him it was over, he'd tried to argue. To tell her she was being foolish, that they had something worth fighting for, and to hell with what people thought. But even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't be enough. He knew her too well, perhaps better than she knew herself.

She would leave him, and he would let her.

He understood why she felt she needed to do it. Nassau was her heart and soul in the same way that the sails and sea were his. He could even acknowledge that her reasoning for doing so was sound. Her analysis of the situation was accurate; no one would truly accept her validity were she to continue operating in his shadow. Which only made being angry with her more difficult. It was hard to be angry when he understood, when he knew her to be right.

But that didn't mean he couldn't try. Anger was an agreeable alternative to misery.

The reality was that it still felt like she'd tossed him aside. A feat he wasn't entirely sure he could have done, had their positions been reversed. This acknowledgment was one that only served to irritate him, as she'd once again proven less attenuated by this fatal attraction than he himself.

But he would concede. He would give her what she wanted because he saw no other viable alternative. Because if he could give her nothing else, he could give her this.

There would be no tearful goodbyes or woeful apologies. Such displays were beneath them both. He had stated his case, his desire to continue as they were. And she had stated hers, the will to remain autonomic.

The two could not exist in tandem, and thus a parting was inevitable.

And so they came together as they often did. Not with words, but with a perceptive understanding and acceptance of the situation and it's connotations. This was the end of an era, a pained relinquishment of a love wrought in savage beauty and ruthless magnificence.

Where most their couplings were a fevered rush of hands and teeth and tongues, this one was different. Perhaps it was due to the weight of unspoken goodbyes, or perhaps it was merely an attempt to prolong the inevitable. Lavish generosity and delayed personal fulfillment were hardly strong character traits in either of them, but here they made it work.

He lay wrapped with her for hours after they had finished, long after she had drifted into sleep. And he left long before she woke, slipped out and off to sea before the daylight ever broke.

She woke to find herself alone, and alone she allowed herself the solace to weep. An allowance rarely granted and desperately needed. Woeful for all she'd set fire to, all she'd destroyed in the name of independence and proficiency. Anguished to know that it was neither the first time, nor the last that she would be forced to watch what she loved burn.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER** : I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE** : **Mild Spoilers** as this is loosely based on the S1E2 Vane comment "Because the last fool who turned her down was never seen or heard from again." Also, I wasn't entirely sure if this piece should be a chapter 2 to my 'In the Shadows of Men', or if it should just be a stand alone story. There ended up being quite a few mentions that tied in with the shadows story so I decided to make it a chapter 2, but I liked where the shadows story had ended so I'm not sure how I feel about adding this one on. Anyway, let me know which way you guys think it should be. Thanks.

**Nassau - 1710**

It was almost a year and a half before she saw him again.

Almost a year and a half that she'd spent trying to solidify her role on the island. In striving to make sure everyone knew it was she, and she alone, who kept Nassau's order. Who kept them all flush in precious coin.

She was adamant that she didn't regret her decision to leave him. It had been the logical thing to do. His absence had helped strengthen her position. She'd gained considerable clout and respect since she'd stepped out from beneath his looming shadow. And though she was not yet where she needed to be, she was well on her way.

She'd also thought herself convinced she no longer missed him. That she had overcome that particularly suffocating burden of the heart, and she was better off for it. She'd convinced herself so thoroughly of this, that when he strode into her tavern all arrogant and nonchalant, she was genuinely surprised by the tightening in her chest.

Hastily, she'd passed it off as childish capriciousness. As a fleeting sense of misplaced sentimentality, but nothing more. And when he'd cast those predatory eyes in her direction, it would only fuel her desire to remain unmoved. To deny him any satisfaction that might come with the knowledge of her unease. When he'd inevitably take to causing her intentional headache, she'd turn to rage for comfort. For rage was a simpler emotion, an easier emotion.

He could be as irksome as he liked, she'd simply return it tenfold. And if there was a taste of nostalgia to this method, she would promptly ignore it.

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He'd returned to Nassau intending to resume business after spending a year and a half away from her. He'd thought that time enough to remove her from his system. To prove to both himself and those around him that he was not a slave to her whims, nor had he ever been.

But then he'd walked back into that tavern. He'd watched her chew out some poor, unsuspecting sod who'd been foolish enough to oppose her, and he'd had a sickening revelation.

He wasn't free. After all that time away from her, he still wanted her.

The discovery was near nauseating. How utterly pathetic and infuriating that she still held such power over him. If almost two years without her had not lessened her grasp, what the fuck would? The more he thought about it, the more irritated he became. If not for the desire to maintain his wounded pride and dignity, he might have just tried carting her off like some bloody neanderthal. The thought had certainly occurred to him, and it held a wicked sort of appeal. The mental image of the shock and indignation that would surely lite her features, also held quite a bit of appeal for him. But given that he'd no intention of acknowledging she still held his interest, he practiced restraint.

They both seemed to do their best to appear as unconcerned and disinterested in each other as humanly possible. They carried on this way for weeks.

Occasionally one of them, usually Vane, would find a reason to say or do something just deriding or taunting enough to encourage conflict. Such occasions happened often enough that Eleanor had begun to wonder if maybe the behaviour was merely a twisted excuse for them to interact. That perhaps he might imagine arguing to be more favorable than not speaking at all.

Even as she chided herself for thinking it, she couldn't help but consider that perhaps he was right. Though God help her, she'd lop off a limb before admitting she'd ever contemplated such a ridiculous thought.

As the months passed he eventually he came to acknowledge that there was no escaping her. That she'd poisoned him, and like poison, she'd course through his veins till they laid him in the ground. He didn't have to like it, but he could accept it. Perhaps he could even make it work to his advantage.

She'd cast him aside in pursuit of her sovereignty, and he'd allowed it because he'd recognized what it meant to her. Because the same fire that drove her ambition, her need for power and self governance, also burned in him. Yet now she was behaving as though he had been the one to wrong her. As though he'd intentionally assailed her with some egregious slight.

It was bullshit, of course. Little more than pretense, that much he knew. After all their time together, he knew damn well that such nonsensical behaviour was often her backwards way of dealing with things she was reluctant to accept. In this instance, he suspected those things were her unwelcome feelings towards him.

He knew she'd always favored anger over the more complex emotions. Hell, so had he. They were far more alike than she would prefer to admit. He imagined she'd likely prefer to choke to death on the words than admit it, but he knew it to be true. He knew her well enough to know that had she not still feelings for him, he likely wouldn't have been able to antagonize her as easily as he did.

This knowledge was what would come to drive his renewed pursuit of her. Had he believed her to be truly done with him, truly without affection for him, then perhaps he could have abandoned the notion. But he didn't believe it, not even a little.

He believed her to be at least half as fucked as he was, and doubly as loathsome as he to admit it. And he had a mind to prove it.

**Nassau – 1711**

"Mr. Chapple, I can assure you that my father will not be speaking with you this evening. I am his emissary here. Here, his business is my business..." Eleanor leaned forward in her chair, clasping her hands neatly on the desk in front of her. Her voice was clipped but firm, level even in the face of such impertinence. Though her eyes gave away her true feeling, they burned with indignation.

Mr. Scott stood just behind her chair, ready to intervene should his ward become too enthusiastic in her dealings.

Mr. Chapple, a solid and ruddy faced beast of a man, sneered."Like fuck. I'll meet with Richard Guthrie, or I'll take my business elsewhere. I can't be expected to negotiate with this uppity little cunt in a skirt!" As if for affirmation, Mr. Chapple looked to O'Malley, the guard standing in the corner.

When O'Malley remained silent and apathetic, Mr. Chapple tossed up his hands in frustration.

The doors to Eleanor's office had been left open when Mr. Chapple had unceremoniously lumbered in to confront her. From the shadows of the back of the establishment, Vane partook in smoke and spirits as he watched the encounter with lazy interest.

Eleanor leaned back slowly, her lips pursed and her eyes a nearly incandescent hue. "You are welcome to do as you please, Mr. Chapple... Though I would encourage you to reconsider."

For a moment Mr. Chapple looked ready to further push the issue, but then something of interest seemed to occur to him. His face shifted and he arched a furry brow, a lopsided and lecherous grin now garnishing his mouth. "Encourage me, would you? Perhaps there's something worthwhile under that skirt after all."

She said nothing. Simply continued to glower at him from across the desk. Mr. Scott sent her a warning look but did not move to oppose her.

Apparently Chapple took this as an invitation to proceed. He began moving toward the desk, and O'Malley stepped forward with his hand drifting to rest against the hilt of his weapon. Without bothering to break eye contact with Chapple, Eleanor waved O'Malley back into position with a dismissive flick of her wrist. O'Malley obeyed but did not relinquish his anticipatory stance.

Chapple continued to advance. She stood then, slowly, with her patience finally waning. "You will not take one more step in my direction." She hissed. Chapple did stop moving, but his face contorted into a mixture of confusion and annoyance. "However you may feel about me and how I run my operation is irrelevant. The fact remains that what I offer you in this arrangement is of far greater value than you could achieve elsewhere. Should you prove too short sighted or stupid to comprehend the profit in this," She began walking round the desk, stopping about a foot from Chapple.

He was twice her size and clearly irate, but she stood her ground. With her own face turned upward, wrought with challenge and animosity, she continued. "you may keep your coin and promptly fuck off..."

Mr Chapple's eyes widened and his jaw clenched. He looked as though he might be inclined to strike her. And while Mr. Scott and O'Malley were all too aware of this danger, Eleanor seemed either oblivious to the threat or completely unconcerned by it.

Mr. Scott's mediating voice broke the silence. "Perhaps we would all do well to remember who Eleanor's father is. It is unlikely he'd take kindly to an altercation such as this..." Mr. Scott stepped forward to stand beside the feuding pair. "I am sure we can find a more amicable solution, one less likely to incur the wrath of Richard Guthrie."

Eleanor shot Mr. Scott a scathing look that might have scarred a lesser man, but Mr. Scott ignored it. Mr. Chapple gave an indignant grunt and turned on his heel, storming towards the door yelling about tyrannical cunts and their propensity towards extortion. Eleanor responded with a string of profanities and an obstreperous declaration that anyone else who did not like the way she ran her business could 'also fuck off'

With an exasperated sigh, Mr. Scott turned a glare on Eleanor. "Was that truly necessary?" He asked.

Eleanor threw up her hands and began storming about her office. "The man is a Goddamned cretin! A hackneyed knuckle-dragger, far better suited to roaming jungles or pulling carts, than to negotiating the proper dealings of trade!"

"Be that as it may, Eleanor..."

Vane couldn't help but grin. She wasn't wrong, Chapple was an idiot. To refuse legitimate leads and profits simply because they had been offered by a woman, was moronic. He had watched Mr. Chapple storm out of Eleanor's office, through the main room and out the front of the establishment. He knew Mr. Chapple to be the proud owner of the Fortune's Tune, a brigantine ship currently full of stolen goods that Chapple now had no intention of selling in Nassau.

And if Chapple wasn't selling in Nassau, he wasn't protected by any of Nassau's codes. Making Mr. Chapple and the Fortune's Tune fair game. As he watched Scott try to reason with the indignant Eleanor, it occurred to him that there may be ample opportunity here.

Once Scott had done all he could to make her see reason, he excused himself and disappeared down the hall to tend to whatever duties he believed needed tending. Still brooding, Eleanor shooed O'Malley from her office, instructing him to go ensure her patrons were behaving themselves.

Vane took this opportunity to saunter over from his table, lean against the doorjamb of her office and look smug.

When Eleanor turned away from her window and noticed him standing in her doorway she cast her eyes upward and let out an exasperated sound. "What the fuck do you want, Charles?"

He was quite certain she had intended to sound threatening, and perhaps to anyone else it would have sounded threatening enough. But to him she just sounded tired. "Perhaps I've business to discuss." He stated plainly.

Her eyes narrowed and she took a few steps toward him before crossing her arms over her chest, blatant suspicion clear on her face.

"I doubt you've any interest in discussing business. You'd have sent Rackham, he's better suited for such things."

Vane gave a lazy shrug. "Perhaps I've a sudden interest in broadening my horizons."

She gave a dry laugh and shook her head. "Oh please, why are you really here?"

He shifted away from the door frame and reached behind him to shut the doors, coming to stand mere inches from her. He watched her try to discern his intent, weary of his every move. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head. He cast his gaze down the front of her before coming back up to meet her eyes, the act intentionally planting less than virtuous thoughts in her head. With great satisfaction he caught her eyes linger on his mouth a second too long before meeting his eyes again.

"I've an interest in uncovering your intentions regarding Mr. Chapple." He said softly.

She frowned. His proximity made her uncomfortable as it warranted unwelcome thoughts she'd spent too long trying to bury. She moved back a step to put some space between them.

"My intentions?" she stated incredulously.

He nodded, his gaze seeming all too heavy and inquiring for her liking.

"Seeing as how that tactless ape refuses to conduct business without the involvement of my thankless fuck of a father? Absolutely nothing." She growled. The ever present sting of her father's disapproval fouling her mood even further.

His lip twitched up with her words, her ire always had a way of rousing a certain thrill in him. A happening that had been both detrimental and satisfying for him in the past. "And you've no intention of attempting to reconcile? Despite the considerable profit his goods could bring?"

She scoffed."Fuck no, that halfwit is more trouble than he's worth."

He seemed to consider her answer. Then, seemingly satisfied, he nodded."Good." He said plainly, and turned to leave the room.

"Good?" She inquired from beneath knit brows. Totally thrown as to why he had any interest in Mr. Chapple, she considered he must have some ulterior motive. "That was really... all you wanted?" There was a great deal of speculation in her voice.

He stopped and turned to look at her. There was a brief moment of silence before he shrugged. Again seeming totally aloof as he arched a brow in mock contemplation. "I suppose we could fuck."

"Ugh," She groaned with a dismissive wave of her hand as she plopped down in the chair behind her desk. "Get the fuck out of here. Go bother someone else. I'm sure Idelle would be happy to service you across the street." Pompous ass, she thought as she feigned searching through papers scattered across her desk.

His mouth curved up a little as he watched her fake interest in her cash logs. Having gained the information he needed and being sufficiently sure he'd gotten under her skin, he turned and strode from her office.

He had a ship to catch.

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Later that night Vane and his crew set about chasing down the Fortune's Tune. Given that the ship and it's contents were worth decent coin, it hadn't been difficult to convince his men of the wisdom in it's taking.

It took only a day and a half to hunt and procure her. Chapple and his crew had refused to surrender, despite being out manned and out gunned. The battle had been bloody but short lived, with the Ranger suffering no substantial losses.

It was a prize well seized as far as Vane was concerned.

A part of him was glad Chapple had been foolish enough to choose carnage over capitulation. There was always a certain thrill to battle, to the fire it lit in the pit of his stomach. Chapple's death had been exceptionally gratifying. The man had been an imperious bastard. Sinking blade to his flesh might have been rewarding enough on it's own; but doing so with the knowledge of Eleanor's distaste for him, made it that much more appealing.

The taking of Chapple's ship would fill his men's pockets. The coin they'd amass from the venture would serve to placate them, distracting and deterring them from ever questioning the true reasoning for the ship's taking.

In truth, the pillage of Fortune's Tune was to be a harbinger of his affection. A macabre wooing of sorts.

Given that Chapple had rather publicly refused and insulted Eleanor, Vane had little doubt that Chapple's sudden disappearance would please her. Additionally, Chapple's sizable cargo would later mysteriously find it's way into the Guthrie warehouse. An occurrence that benefited both Eleanor and his crew.

It was a strategy that would please her and cost him nothing. He could grant her something he knew she'd appreciate and not concern himself with how it might look, or how the truth might damage his standing with his crew.

While he had no doubt Eleanor would understand the gesture for what it truly was, he also knew she was likely too stubborn to allow it to change anything between them. Her pride would not allow her to yield so easily. She had ended things between them with a swift and brutal blow. One he knew had wounded them both, but had served her well. He knew her to attribute much of her current success to the removal of his influence over her. And as such, it was unlikely she would renege on her decision to hold him at bay.

He knew that in the end the gesture would, if nothing else, simply relay his affection for her without unveiling more than either of them was comfortable with. He'd learned long ago that applying force to Eleanor rarely yielded results. Having failed more than once to do just that, he now doubted there was anyone who could force that damnable woman to do anything. When it came to Eleanor, a subtle approach was far more effective. And so the situation had been orchestrated in such a way, that if he felt the need, he could deny the entire thing. Simply claim he had done it for the coin and nothing else.

Whether she denied him or rewarded his efforts, he would be no worse off.

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Rackham had been sent to Eleanor with the task of selling the goods from Fortune's Tune. He now sat across from her looking all too innocent. While she sat behind her desk looking skeptical.

"What exactly is it you expect me to believe here, Rackham?" She asked. Her tone was incredulous, her brow arched and her arms crossed.

Rackham had no doubt she knew exactly what he was proposing. He was quite certain that she was supposed to. He suspected this entire scenario was a scheme of his Captain's making. Most people assumed Vane to be little more than a mindless brute, but Rackham knew better. Being a man quite familiar with the delicate and strategic maneuverings of difficult women, he found himself impressed at his Captain's aptitude in this maneuvering.

Rackham's mouth twitched and he glanced around in that birdlike manner of his before crossing his legs and making a show of getting comfortable. "I'm afraid I don't follow. I'm not asking you to believe anything. I simply wish to conduct business as usual. We stock your warehouse with valuable wares, and you provide us with a legitimate means of selling them." The grin he flashed her was brimming with well versed cordiality.

"Is it only coincidence then? That your wares bare a striking resemblance to those, that only three days ago, stormed out of my office in Mr. Chapple's possession?" She inquired. She was rather fond of Rackham, but not quite so fond as to swallow his nonsense without question.

His grin only widened. "I suppose it is."

Her eyes narrowed. "Because you've no knowledge of Mr. Chapple or Fortune's Tune. You simply came across a nameless ship with a nameless captain, and plundered her happily without question?" The sarcasm in her voice was more than apparent but Rackham chose to ignore it.

"Exactly." He chirped, slapping his hand down on the arm of his chair for enthusiastic emphasis.

She rolled her eyes. She wasn't an idiot, she knew damn well the goods were Chapple's. The two ships had left port only hours apart and the Ranger returned after three days, implying her prize had not been very far off. And the inventory she carried was identical to that of Fortune's Tune, right down to the last grain of sugar. On top of that, Vane had asked her about Chapple before leaving. The whole thing reeked of deception.

She doubted Rackham was a truly oblivious participant, but he seemed determined to play the ignorant fool. Which probably meant Charles had told him to keep quiet about it. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about that.

She caught herself worrying her bottom lip and realized Rackham was still awaiting her confirmation. With a dismissive wave of her hand she stated. "Very well. I've no real concern over where it came from anyway. Have your men move it into to my warehouse later today."

Rackham sprang to his feet."Excellent, I'll inform the Captain." He said cheerfully and Eleanor wondered briefly at the odd sort of energy that man possessed. He always seemed ready to spontaneously take flight or skitter off. "As usual it was lovey doing business with you, Miss Guthrie." She watched as he grinned goodnaturedly, did a mock bow and turned to flutter from her office.

Before Rackham reached the door she called out to him. "Oh, when you inform Charles of our transaction, can you also let him know I would like a word with him?" If Charles was up to something, she wanted to know what it was.

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She'd summoned for him. As though she were a sovereign queen, candidly calling forth one of her disciples. Though he reluctantly supposed, that in a way, that was exactly what she was. He often found himself inclined to allow her more authority than he granted most. But the unbalanced power variable in that equation irked him, so he took his sweet time getting back to her.

It was another day and three or four ales later, before Vane even considered making his way across the street to her tavern. Lightly buzzed and feeling somewhat pleased with himself and how he'd handled the situation, he decided it was high time he graced her majesty with his presence.

As he entered the tavern, a scrawny barmaid who's name he could never remember, hurried past him carrying a tray of ale. As she passed by, he swiped one of the ales from her tray. For just a moment she looked as though she might say something chiding. But then she seemed to recognize who he was.

She promptly turned around and hurried off in another direction.

Vane smirked. At least someone could acknowledge his standing. Taking a healthy gulp of whatever resided in his mug, he began scanning the establishment for his arrogant little femme fatale.

He spotted her snatching a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. He began stalking towards her as she searched in vain for a clean glass. Halfway across the room, he lifted his glass and called out blithely "Miss Guthrie!"

Her head jerked toward the sound of his voice, her eyes narrowing as he made his way up to the bar and leaned against it. "Captain Vane. How nice of you to finally make an appearance..." Her voice dripped with sarcastic censure.

Her irritation slid over his skin, validating his decision to make her wait. He grinned, lifted his glass in her direction and gave a slight nod. He knew his lack of excuse or apology would irk her, and he watched with lazy amusement as she rolled her eyes and scoffed.

"I don't know why I bother. Come on then," She gestured impatiently for him to rise and follow her. "we've business to discuss and I'd like it done this century." That said, she turned and stalked off toward her office.

With no sense of urgency, he threw back what was left of his drink, set it down on the counter and languorously set about following her.

Upon reaching her office he found her leaning against the front of her desk with her arms crossed. She watched him quietly as he shut the door behind him and leaned back against it. For a moment they simply stared at each other.

Her curt voice broke the silence. "Why did you take Fortune's Tune?" She asked abruptly.

He shrugged, readjusting himself against the door and hooking his thumbs into the tops of his pants. His head tilted down slightly so he watched her through upturned eyes, giving his stature a somewhat predatory quality. "Can't say I recall the name..."

His words said one thing, but his tone didn't bother to feign being thrown by the question.

"And I suppose 'Chapple' doesn't ring any bells either?" She asked through furrowed brows. Her face seemed odd, contorted into something between pain and frustration and he begun to wonder what she was thinking.

"None." He stated bluntly. He watched the wheels turning in her head and wondered what she found so troubling about all this. He was well aware she knew he was lying, that much was obvious, but he wasn't sure why that should bother her any. Chapple's disappearance had done nothing but benefit her.

"Four days ago you asked me about my intentions involving Mr. Chapple..." She prompted softly. He only watched her as though he were intent on reading her thoughts, on conveying his own. He said nothing. "Prior to your inquiry, Mr. Chapple and I had had a... disagreement..." She swallowed and looked away. "Though I suspect you already knew that..." She met his eyes again.

Still, he said nothing. Simply continued to watch her, to gauge her reaction.

She knew.

He knew she knew.

Now it was a matter of what she would do with the information.

If she had doubted it before, she was certain of it now. He'd killed Chapple, taken the Fortune's Tune and lain it's cargo at her feet. It was an offering, a thinly veiled gesture of affection that touched her despite her desire to remain unmoved.

And she hated herself for it. No good could come of this. She could not allow him to cloud her judgment as he had before. She'd come so far since removing him, worked so hard to be seen as more than just an extension of Charles Vane or Richard Guthrie. She would not abandon that progress.

Though a part of her yearned to to just that. She'd spent so much time and effort trying to cut him from her chest. Trying to convince herself it didn't hurt, that she was past it. And as she watched him await her decision, pretending he hadn't just killed a man simply to please her, all that pretense came crashing down around her. It had all been pointless. They could pretend all they liked, but what they'd had was like a sickness. A devastatingly fatal attraction that whispered of both pain and promise. She wouldn't bother pretending it didn't exist anymore, but she wouldn't let it consume her again either. This time she would hold it at bay, this time she would dictate the parameters of their relationship. There would be no shadows for her to stand under.

She would cast her own.

"My battles are not yours to fight, Charles..." She said finally as she uncrossed her arms and moved away from the desk so she could stand a little straighter.

The side of his mouth moved to form the smallest of smiles, more a smirk than anything else. "Did it not please you?"

She stared at him, thrown just a little. Learning of Chapple's demise had indeed been satisfying, but it wasn't the satisfaction with his death that had struck her. Rather, that she found herself somewhat charmed that he had acted in her name. Which was ridiculous of course, murder could hardly be considered a suitable method of courtship. But then again, there was very little about their relationship that could be described as conventional.

Resigned, she decided unconventional was more suited to her tastes anyway.

She said nothing as she removed her jacket and laid it on the desk. Said nothing still as she removed the clip from her hair, tossed it with the jacket and turned back to face him. His head tilted to the side, he was watching her move with an expression somewhere between longing and distrust.

She liked that look. It spoke of her control of the situation, of confirmation that she was not alone in her misguided affections.

He didn't move until she was upon him, until her hands gripped his face and her teeth scraped his lips. Then it was ebullient, a gnashing of teeth and tongues. He had waited so long for this. To taste her in his mouth and feel her in his hands again.

It was foolish. He knew it would not last. He understood it was unlikely she would allow anything to come of it, that she simply needed an outlet for what she was unwilling to accept. Yet he couldn't bring himself to care. He would follow this woman straight through hell if she asked him to. Likely even if she didn't.

She was an affliction he couldn't quite bring himself to hate.

They panted and pawed at each other, tearing clothing in a desperate rush of eagerness to lay flesh against flesh. As he lowered his head to run his mouth along her neck and shoulder, she panted "This is not a surrender." Her hands flew to unclasp the last of her corset as she dropped to her knees before him. She reached up to begin working his pants from his body. "I am not yours..."

He watched her drop to her knees, heard her declaration of autonomy, and he knew there was truth to it. He knew she would never truly submit, never allow herself to be wholly owned by anyone. It was part of why he loved her. Part of how he knew she could never be satisfied with a simple existence.

What he couldn't seem to prove to her, was that he'd never wanted to take any of that from her. He was drawn to her insolence, to the heat of her anger, to all of it. Her shameless disregard for propriety and relentless pursuit of authority were things he admired. He didn't want rid of any of it. As infuriating and stubborn as she was, he would never have asked her to change.

Not that it mattered. She was determined not to allow her heart to cloud her mind. She'd be as obstinate as she liked, and there was little anyone could do about it.

They had that in common.

He closed his eyes as her mouth slid over him. He'd already submitted to the hold she had over him, long ago accepted she would be his downfall. There was little he could do to change things now. He could only hope that these moments would be enough, that she would grant him at least that solace. For even as he craved her, he would not beg.

His hand slipped into her hair and he spoke the only truth he could think to say. "You never were..."


End file.
